“Stop pulling away from me,” he growled as he pulled me back. One minute I was ready to run to the bathroom and to kick myself for risking my career for this dude, and the next he had me pinned to the mattress with his hard body. The feminist in me didn’t like being manhandled, but also that simple move had me wetter than a slip and slide. Maybe I did like being manhandled?

“You wanna know why I don’t like labels, Solver?” he asked, pressing into me. “It becomes a game.”

“It’s not a game. It’s a way for us to know the clear boundaries of our dynamic. What the fuck are you talking about?” I asked, squirming.

“I’ve been with a lot of girls—” My groan of annoyance cut him off. “And all of them wanted to know what we were so they could hashtag boyfriend me on Instagram. I like trophies, but I don’t want to be anyone’s participation badge.”

I thrust my hips up in annoyance. The move simply added more heat to the moment. “And you think I’m just some girl looking to brag about my football star fuck buddy?” I asked. “I didn’t want this.”

“And I know that,” Oakley purred, kissing my neck. I don’t know how he knew where every sensitive little spot on my neck was, but he teased them expertly. “It’s a hang up I have. I’m working on it, okay? I’m trying to navigate a lot of change right now. My party life. My image. My...my future.”

I wanted to ask him what he meant. I really fucking did. But he looked like he was about to run from the room. I recognized how vulnerable he looked and didn’t want to pressure him.

But I didn’t want to compromise my own sanity, either.

“We can take things slow,” I replied. “I don’t want you dipping in any infected ponds while we’re sharing a lily pad, though.”

Oakley grinned. “How could I possibly want another pond when this one is so perfect?” His lips found my collarbones, and that skilled tongue of his swiped out to taste me.

Then he was gone. I was just about ready to spread-eagle for him when he jumped off the bed and started searching for something. Once he found his cell phone on the dresser, he came back. “Take a photo with me,” he pleaded.

“I’m naked,” I argued. Oakley rolled his eyes and grabbed my hand, making sure to thread our fingers together. Within an instant, he snapped a photo—making sure to crop out my freeballing titties. After what felt like two seconds of filtering, it was posted to Instagram and already had four hundred likes.

“What did you say?” I asked as he tossed it on the mattress beside me.

“See for yourself. I’m about to take a shower.”